


I Knew a Boy

by Nizhoni93



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abuse, Bill Hader is Richie Tozier, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Boys In Love, City adventures, Coping, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Whump, F/M, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Getting Back Together, Good times, Healing, Human Pennywise (IT), Humor, Hurt Eddie, James Ransone is Eddie Kaspbrak, Love, M/M, Memories, Minor billverly, New York City, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Richie Tozier, Reddie, Repressed Memories, Reunions, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie is on SNL, Slow Burn, The Losers Club, Tragedy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, conversion camp, conversion therapy, not all bad, robert gray - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-09-02 13:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16788283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nizhoni93/pseuds/Nizhoni93
Summary: When Eddie Kaspbrak was fifteen he knew a boy, an infuriating, foul-mouthed, live wire of a boy that once made him feel like everyone in the world were playing extras in a movie about their love story.Now at thirty, Eddie is a different man altogether. Not a star, but a nameless face among millions. At home he’s engaged to Myra, a woman who coddles and nags him into a sense of false security. At work, he hides behind the steering wheel—a chauffer for people who actually matter. And inside…well inside he’s just empty.Eddie thinks being empty isn’t the worst way to live. It means he’s got nothing left to lose. Not when he’s already lost the best thing he’s ever had.He lost Richie Tozier.What terrible events could have unfolded all those years ago, to drive these two apart? And what will happen, when Richie—now a thriving television comedian—is suddenly thrust back into Eddie’s life as his newest client? Forgetting is easier said than done, and the two men, now practical strangers, are forced to come to blows with their tragic past. For Eddie, this means reliving the often-brutal memories that once divided them, and finding strength in that part of himself he thought he’d long abandoned.





	1. Have Your Cake

**Author's Note:**

> So this story has been sitting in my thoughts for sometime now, and I just had to get it out there. It's written from Eddie's perspective and will follow his story, both past and present, exploring the cause of Richie and Eddie's breakup as kids. I must warn everyone, that parts of this story will get heavy, and though never explicit I will make sure to warn readers when a chapter may be triggering. I also understand that I'm writing about a very sensitive topic that many people have tragically experienced in real life. I promise I will do my best to tell this story with as much honesty and sensitivity to the topic as I can. 
> 
> Also, this story isn't completely bleak! Don't worry, I tried to stay true to the characters as much as possible, which means lots of silliness and inappropriate Richie. Also tons of fluff and cute moments for these two! Reddie is so pure and I love them to bits <3
> 
> With that said, thank you to anyone who takes the time to read this story and I hope you enjoy the first chapter to, "I Knew a Boy."

I've just speared into my sixth slice of cake—a five decker chocolate truffle with coconut ganache; or so Belinda, our dessert consultant has told us. If I'm being frank, they all taste the same to me. Adorned with bells and whistles sure, but beneath the floras of powder pink icing, it's still just a chocolate cake isn't it? Dark brown, like the foot of my sneakers after a morning jog, when a deluge of rain has torn through New York City and lapped muck from the streets through my route of Central Park.

Call me old fashioned, but I've always had a penchant for vanilla. _Clean. Simple. Safe. Vanilla._ Myra, my fiancé calls it boring, and she most definitely won't settle fore a boring cake on her wedding day. And so explains the nine rounds of chocolate cake plated before us on the café table.

We're at the Dollhouse, a bakery situated in Greenwich Village that's pressed like a whoopee pie between two Victorian brick edifices—a distillery to the left and some trendy looking clothing shop on the right. It is, in every way, shape or form, the definition of "sugar and spice." The walls are brightly painted, bespattered like the tangled swirls of salt-water taffy, the kind they sell on Long Island. A rainbow of ornamental sweets litters the display; sweet pies, lemon tarts, sprinkled meringues, cookies, macaroons, fruit, custard pies and _oh_ , so many cakes.

For some reason, they've got these plush mascots with ogling doe eyes, floppy ears and fleecy purple pelts shelved all around the shop, watching us. They're unnerving to say the least, and I'm reminded vaguely of the "Grimace," that creepy, anthropomorphic mistake from McDonaldland. A character who haunted my happy meals from all of preschool to fifth grade, until I finally put my foot down and transitioned to menu item #6—a Big Mac Meal. It was after I'd convinced mom I could, in fact stomach a full "big-boy" burger without getting sick all over the restaurant.

…

I realize my gaze is being held by one of those little plush nightmares, and it feels for the moment like it's staring deep into my soul, an interrogation by two acumen and unblinking porcelain eyes. It knows I'd rather be anywhere but here in this cramped, toothache of a bakery. I feel the sweat beading at my hairline, a ripple of nausea combs over me and I break our gaze.

The wannabe Grimace decidedly wins our staring contest.

I reach across the table for a complimentary espresso, served to us in a tiny mug that I feel ridiculous using. My fingers won't fit to the handle, so I just palm the damn thing like I'm taking a shot and swallow my nausea in one harsh gulp of searing liquid. When I turn to face Myra, the plastic seat groans embarrassingly under my ass.

_Fucking, really?_

The decor is bubbly— _literally!_ I'm sitting on an orange inflatable chair as we speak.

Myra hums beside me, eyes shut in savour. She's in some kind of confectionary heaven. I'm somewhere else entirely. My focus is on her mouth, covered with those gooey bits of tar coloured crumbs. I set the mug down and anxiously grab a doily from the table. Coiling it round my finger, I dab the sullied corners of her lips. She giggles, and opens her eyes. She thinks I'm being playful, cute, spontaneous. So, I smile like I should, and ask her if she's enjoying this one? I'm praying she says yes. We've been at it for hours now, venue tours, meetings with caterers, selecting invitations, florists. The afternoon has coalesced together, in a mind-numbing kaleidoscope of sparkly pink things—Myra's favourite colour—and I'm left wondering if our wedding will wind up looking like the state of a child's chin after they've popped a balloon of pink bubble gum.

She scrunches up her nose, and let's out a long, drawn out, "ummm…" like she's actually contemplating it, but I already know her mind is made up. She's not sold. I close my eyes, inhale for _one_ … _two_ … _three_ …and when I open my eyes, I'm staring at Belinda almost pleadingly. "I think we need to try another one," I inform her, trying to rush this whole process along.

"Wait a minute!" Myra halts us; "We haven't even discussed this one yet."

"And it really is an excellent option!" Belinda chimes, casually pushing the order card toward us. She is young, in her early twenties with an orange scrunchy that pulls her hair into a ponytail and away from her gaunt, unduly blushed cheeks. I'm struck by how petite she is, considering her chosen profession. Her lips are waxy red and thin like a rubber band, tight and poised to snap into a frown at any moment now. She's losing patience with us, having already cancelled two appointments to accommodate Myra's indecisiveness. To appease her I pick up the card with the cake details, pretending to mull it over.

Myra asks me, "So, what do you think about this cake Eddie sweetie?"

 _Okay_ , _let's_ _be_ _real now._

"Honestly?" I set the card down and look at her beleaguered. "It's exactly like the last one we tried, and the one before that and before that." I don't miss Belinda rolling her eyes at me from across the table. "Can't we just choose one already?"

Myra bristles at my response. With a huff, she insists the cakes are entirely different and how could I not get that? "Didn't you notice? This one has coconut icing!"

I pinch the bridge of my nose, "Baby, you don't even like coconut."

She pouts, as if I've just uttered the most ludicrous thing in the entire world, "I do so!"

_She doesn't._

"Okay," I tell her, "Well I don't. I damn well hate coconut."

I'm lying. If there's anything about this cake I do like, it's the goddamn, fucking coconut. Myra is just more likely to move onto the next cake when I'm the one being discordant.

Myra crosses her arms, and says to Belinda with a flippant little titter, "so my fiancé apparently doesn't like coconut now. Me? Well I think it's just fine. But what am I to do? He's just so picky."

Breath. _One. Two. Three._

My phone starts vibrating and I thankfully have reason to excuse myself from the awkward situation, much to Myra's chagrin. A bell chimes as I swing the bakery door open and step out. I take in the wintry chill; welcome the sting, allowing it to nibble my flesh like an invisible creature with cold lips. Fumed-filled fog billows from potholes, straining my lungs, but for once I don't care. I don't question the smell, or the taste or the germs—I just take it in. Feeling relieved, to be away from anything to do with wedding planning, even just for the moment.

When I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell, I see that Lorne, my boss from the limo agency is calling. He's an irascible and scraggly, five-foot nothing senior, long overdue for retirement. But, as long as he can move on his own two feet, I suspect he'll keep on working. I wonder if it's because Lorne has never had children of his own, that he's so unwilling to retire. Perhaps he's afraid of abandoning the only legacy he's ever had. When he started the company, Lorne's Luxury Limos more than fifty years ago, he never would have predicted the success to follow, nor how drastically it would consume his life. Now he's eighty-four, rich, and bitter; longing for a family that never was and never will be.

I like to believe that I fill a kind of void for him, much the same way he does for me. I've never met my father. He passed away sometime before I was born. I wish I could say I knew more about him—that he isn't just a stranger's face in a photograph. But I can't. Mom has always kept those memories to herself. Myra thinks it's because she's protecting me from something worse than not knowing. I think it's because she's selfish.

Lorne isn't selfish. He's the unstable, alcohol-dependent father figure I've never had. That, and my mentor. When I walked into his agency, fresh out of business school, he took a chance on me when no one else would. To him, I'm not just his driver—I'm his second in command and he trusts me like I were his own.

...

"Heya Ed!" Lorne shouts into my ear, with his surly Brooklyn accent when I answer my phone. I picture him lounging in the armchair behind his desk, feet propped up, with a cigar between his lips as he speaks. "How goes the nuptial plannin'?"

_Oh you know, murder me now. Impale me on a spike. Throw my to the fucking wolves Lorne, because anything is fucking better than thi-_

"Eddie?"

I start, shaking out of my thought "It's fine," I answer brusquely. "S'not like I have a life outside of this, or anything."

"Cake tasting today though! That ain't half bad."

"Ha, Ha!" I exaggerate derisively. "Myra's still torn on the flavour. Maybe she just needs a third opinion. Tell me Lorne, what sounds better? Chocolate? Or…and here's where the decision gets real tough…chocolate?"

He let's out a loud guffaw that dispels into a fit of hacking coughs. I wince, and tell him he needs to lay off the cigars. He tells me he's smoked damn near his whole life, and to mind my business.

Not one to argue, I get back to the matter at hand, "Do you have a job for me?" Right now I'm looking for any excuse to slink away, even only for a few hours of peace. I love Myra, I do. But planning her dream wedding has become an all around full-time job on top of my very real full-time job as a chauffer. I cover my mouth over the receiver and whisper the next part, "Because at this point, I'm willing to take anything Lorne. Really I am." 

"You're in luck kid," Lorne confirms. He relays the details of the pickup to me. Tonight. Six p.m. LaGuardia Airport. A high profile, sketch comedian from SNL is flying back into New York from Los Angeles, where he did a guest spot on an episode of Conan. "He's a real A-list kinda fella," Lorne explains.

_Jackpot!_

Celebrities aren't always the most humble passengers. Some are real egotistical assholes, allowing their groupies to treat the vehicles like a party bus. I don't even want to mention the things I've found in the back seat of my limo. Just say, bodily fluids were involved— _a lot of bodily fluids_.

But those cases are few and far between. In most instances, they tip well and pretend I don't exist. I'm not a huge chatterbox, and I'm more than content to let them slide up the dividing window, and allow me drive them wherever they need to go in silence.

I ask Lorne what the man's name is, because I've driven a number of comedians around before this, Will Ferrell, Ben Stiller, Adam Sandler, Kristin Wiig, the list goes on. I'm curious how familiar I am with this guy's work.

It sounds like Lorne is rifling through his desk. He let's out a few curses, and tells me he misplaced some of the paperwork, but to get dressed and high tail it back to the office. He'll find the details before I get there and leave them for me at the front desk. I tell him I'll be there soon, and hang up with a smile.

 _Oh_ _fuck_.

When I turn around, the smile instantly drops. Through the glass display, Myra is glaring at me from inside the bakery. Call me coward, but I'm actually afraid to go back inside and face her. To inform her that our afternoon of planning has been cut short, because work called and I now have an "important" pickup to fulfill.

Though it seems by the expression on her face, that she's already reached that conclusion on her own. She shakes her head at me, and the guilt slithers it's way through me like something barbed and slimy. In that moment, a car horn blares. It startles me and breaks our gaze. When I turn back toward the Dollhouse, expecting to face her, Myra is no longer watching me. She's chatting with Belinda, laughing as she takes another bite of chocolate cake.

…


	2. I Need You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I'm back with a new chapter. Apologies for the long wait...I'm so bad at updating, but I'll try to post again soon. I should let you know, the style of this chapter is a little different then the first, but as I continue updating you'll start to get the hang of it. Also I really want to show the changes in Eddie's character from him being a kid to the present day, so obviously he'll sound much younger in the flashback chapters. 
> 
> I'd like to mention, I don't mean to offend anyone with any negative feelings expressed by Eddie toward Catholicism in this chapter. I'm just trying to express his trepidation as far as homosexuality and religion are concerned. But considering the subject matter of this story, I also won't be shying away from issues of child abuse within the catholic church or abuse within conversion camps (both very real problems). But there will never be an explicit scene in this story, just references to scenes of that nature. I'll be doing a lot of research for this story to make sure I tackle all issues genuinely and with decorum and empathy for victims who have suffered in similar ways. 
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to comment, kudos and bookmark on the first chapter! I appreciate the support so much and I love you all for giving me the motivation to continue. 
> 
> Hope you like this chapter just as much! Enjoy!

**_July 16th, 1992_**

_I'm standing before the formerly abandoned well house on twenty-nine Neibolt Street, thinking of us and how only a year ago we stood right here together, with all the Losers, staring at up at this house in much the same way I'm doing now._

_You remember, don't you?_

_It was that same day you dragged us to the Aladdin for a throwback screening of "I Was a Teenage Werewolf." You called it a fucking classic. Umm, that's debatable because while it may have scared you completely shitless, I'm pretty sure Mike fell asleep. Bev and Bill were making out the entire time and poor Stanley, he was looking totally mortified beside them, especially when Bill tried going for second base._

_How Stan always manages to get stuck in the seat next to them, I'll never know._

_Ben was busy making chemistry with the snacks and to his credit, he did discover what a kick-ass combination pop rocks and m &m's make, when paired with ketchup popcorn._

_And I…I was staring at you._

_So yeah, no one was all that invested in the film. At least, not like you were. But that's okay, we sat through it anyway, because while it may have been utter crap and we would have much preferred watching the new Nightmare on Elm Street movie, none of us were about to say so and burst your bubble._

_I hope it was worth all the nightmares though, because, now I'm just worrying whose bedroom window you're going to come crawling through on the nights when Michael Landon decked in cringy werewolf drag, starts chasing you in your sleep._

_Dear god, it better not be Bill — I still don't forgive you for saying he's gives better hugs than me._

_…_

_We were hanging outside the theatre after the movie. Looking all squinty eyed and headachy because our pupils still hadn't adjusted to the brazen afternoon sunlight._

_Then we heard them—four roaring engines, sputtering a tail of exhaust behind them and drawing our attention as they rolled by. I remember, so clearly the colour of the vans, painted blood red and shiny with gold letters lyrically swooped across the barn doors, "You'll Float Too."_

_What does that even mean?_

_Anyway, it seemed like something new was actually happening in Derry for once. So we hopped on our bikes and followed the entire parade of vans, all the way across town, until they had stopped right here, outside Neibolt House._

_The doors to one van flew open, and five large men wearing hard hats quickly piled out. Two of them carried a ladder, another brandished a sledgehammer, and the third was swinging a tool chest while the last guy was reading off blue prints. They set to work, demolishing the place._

_We watched, completely perplexed by the excitement happening around us._ _"_

_"Is someone moving in?" Mike asked._

_Stan shook his head, "There's no way, I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to live in that house."_

_"Yeah, it's so creepy," Bev rubbed her arms, like she felt a chill, "I always feel like it's watching me."_

_"Well someone must have bu-bought the pu-place, and it's obvious they're fff-fixing it up," said Bill._

_"Guys look over there!" Ben pointed, and we turned to find another van opening up. Only this time, a handful of women all dressed exactly the same, draped in tunics from head to toe and dawning cowls and white veils came out._

_"The fuck is even going on?" you asked, "Are those nuns?"_

_The last van opened up and a sinewy, dapperly looking man, dressed in an all black cassock stepped out. His white collar looked really fucking tight against his throat and it's no wonder why he had such a bug-eyed gaze. He had red hair, slicked back completely, probably with a generous helping of product. He walked with purpose through the commotion, pointing a bony finger here and there to direct the crew around him._

_"Is that a bishop?"_

_"No you idiot, he's a priest."_

_"How would you know, you're a Jew."_

_"Oh my god, beep beep."_

_"Seriously though, what's with all the holy folk?"_

_Bill answered, "Gotta' be sss-some kind of church, or sss-somthing." And since fourteen-year-old teenagers could care less about the religious happenings taking place in their already boring little town, he shrugged it off like it was no big deal and said, "You guys rrr-ready to go to the quarry?"_

_We left, forgetting all about the mysterious red vans and the supposed church being built on Niebolt Street._

_…_

_A sign pegged deep in the newly lain grass reads:_

_" **Neibolt Home for Wayward Boys** "_

_Okay, definitely not a church, then._

_Actually, it's a kind of camp; which according to the pamphlet is supposed to, "Steer misguided young men back onto a path of righteousness." Confused, debauched and wicked young men—like me._

_Bill is rarely ever wrong, but I don't think any of us would have ever guessed this is what they were building here that day. I wonder how would you have handled it, if you'd known then? I imagine you grabbing me by the waist, hauling me in for a deep, bruising kiss—apropos to the values of that priest guy standing and watching us._

_It would have been a big ole' "Fuck You!" to his ass-backwards religious dogma where homosexuality is wrong blah…fricken…blah!_

_And damn, I wish you were here now, because I really fucking miss kissing you._

_…_

_When I gaze over the building, it looks nothing as we saw a year ago. Gone is its reputation as the decrepit and haunted eyesore of Derry. With a renewed finish of powder-blue paint having replaced the stodgy white colour that used to rind off the outside walls like dry husk. It could almost pass for newly built._

_The dying vines, which you once told me reminded you of a giant spider's fingers—not like a giant spider has ever existed—are no longer scuttling about the home. They've been stripped away, making room for the detailed finials to impale the sky, and the intricately carved cornicing, once lost by years of debris and weathering to appear again. The shattered and boarded windows that once hid all the hoboes and junkies—as you not so gently put it—are now facetted with stain glass._

_I've only been to church a handful of times, but I recognize Saint Peter staring down at me from his place on the turret window. He's looking as holier-than-thou as ever; a cross held against his heart and a blank, glass-eye gaze glinting in the sweltering July sun._

_I guess he's here to save my soul._

_I dare him to fucking try._

_Mom closes the trunk behind me, startling me out of my thoughts. She hands me a green leather suitcase—dad's—the only possession I've of his that's she's actually willing to part with. She nods me toward the door and I feel my heart thudding in my chest. The mere thought of stepping inside this place ramps me with panic._

_NO!NO!NO!NO! I can't do this! I can't do this! I can't do this!_

_I feel my lungs constricting, urging me not to take another step. I drop the suitcase, and clutch my t-shirt against my chest. I twist the fabric between my fingers. Mom comes up, looking worried. She reaches into her fanny pack, shuffles around for a moment before drawing out my old inhaler._

_She's got to be fucking kidding!_

_I gulp, struggling for air and shake my head at her, because I'd literally rather drop dead._

_She shoves the inhaler in my face, waggles it around, tries to push it into my mouth and all while yelling at me to stop being stubborn and take my 'medicine.'_

_Fuck that. I haven't needed her so-called "medicine" in over three years. I'm not about to take it now._

_I knock mom's hand away and she lets out an appalled sound—starts telling me how disappointed I've made her. All while my heart still pounds like a fucking jackhammer and I'm feeling like it's totally going to explode and we're going to have a serious ALIEN situation going on here._

_I close my eyes and rub my temples trying to clear my thoughts and focus on something I know will calm me down. Instantly it's your face I see. I feel your calloused and tender hands cupping my face and your eyes looking all magnified and purposeful behind your glasses._

_In this memory, you're telling me to breath. "One. Two. Three. That's right Eds, you've got this." You kiss my forehead encouragingly, and whisper against my skin, "Good job baby, now, again…"_

_One. Two. Three._

_I keep going. Keep repeating the counting method you taught me. The panic attack only lasts a few more seconds, until I begin to feel my lungs settle and my heart is no longer battling against me._

_I snort out a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a breath of relief. When I look up, it's complacently at mom. She glares at me, completely bitter._

_She hates that I don't need her._

_I only need you._

_She points at my suitcase. Tells me brusquely to stop fooling around and grab my suitcase off the ground—"how can you be so frivolous with your father's things?" Her words are clipped._

_I clench my jaw because she's actually unbelievable; but I bite back the words I know I'll regret saying to her later. She may be the absolute worst, but she's still my mom and I won't be seeing her for another six months after today. Better I leave things on a decent note between us._

_I sigh and bend down, hitching the suitcase out of the grass. I follow her, dragging my feet through the gate and up the cobblestone path. We stand on the wrap-around porch, staring at a fancy wood door. A menacing gargoyle-shaped knocker is nailed there, snarling at me. I cringe when Mom knocks twice and the gargoyle whines—like a warning. Back out now._

_A moment passes before a young, and pretty looking nun with apple cheeks and kind blue eyes answers the door for us. Mom stiffens at the sight of her—she's not good around women whom outshine her. That generally means she not good around women. Period._

_Mom narrows her eyes pettily at the girl—a fucking nun—like, get over yourself mom. "We have an appointment," she says curtly._

_"Of course!" The nun ushers us in with a smile. Her shining eyes meet my hesitant gawk, but she looks genuinely happy to see me, "it'll be such a pleasure to have you joining." She walks us into the lounge and informs us to wait here. "He'll be in to see you shortly."_

_This place is palatial, like a picture taken right out of one of our history textbooks—that chapter about the Georgian era. The ceilings reach high up, painted with religious murals and crystal chandeliers hang down from above, glinting bright. The drapery is paisley, as is the carpet that follows the wood panelled corridors. There's a grand, winding staircase in the foyer and ornate obelisks supporting every room. On the walls, oil paintings of patrons are hung up and elegant china pieces are staged all around, looking like they've never once been used._

_I can't imagine your clumsiness would fair well in a place like this. No offence, but I think you'd break something the moment you stepped in._

_Mom takes a seat as soon as she sees one. It's a wicker love-seat that dips when she lowers herself in. I imagine it breaking under her weight and smirk at the thought of her wedged through the middle and flailing about._

_Everything is so gleaning and polished and I'm afraid to actually touch anything myself, so I hang by the window and look out. I wonder how easy it'd be to make a break for it._

_I'm curious how many boys have tried; and then something hits me — I haven't seen a single kid yet, not since we stepped through the front doors._

_What's that about?_

_The floorboards creak and I turn to find the same priest we saw that day a year ago. He walks into the room and greets us. His lips are tangled upward, into a bowtie of a smile. It's creepy. I might be jumping to conclusions here, but he's got this look about him—deceptively charming but totally seedy beneath the surface. Mom doesn't seem to notice though, because she blushes as he approaches._

_"It's so wonderful to see you again Miss. Kaspbrak," he reaches out to shake her hand._

_Mom giggles—fucking actually giggles at this guy, as she takes his hand. She says the pleasure is all hers—she's heard a lot of good things from the ladies at the salon about him, and she's just so grateful he could accept me on such short notice. He tells her its not a problem and how happy he is to have me join the program._

_They're talking like I'm not even standing here._

_"And you really suppose you can help him?"_

_"Of course Miss. Kaspbrak. Our boys graduate completely removed from any immoral desires."_

_Immoral, huh? I wonder what he'd call that special thing you did with your mouth two nights ago when we were alone in your basement. You know what I'm talking about...and fuck you for being so smug about it._

_Mom winces like she's ashamed to have to explain my situation to this stranger."My Eddie Bear is a good boy Father. He's just…impressionable. And he keeps spending time with the wrong sort. His friends, they're all little monsters…_

_"Mom—_

_"And the one who did this to him," she shakes her head and spits bitterly, "Struts around town, perfectly fine with being promiscuous and acting filthy. Such a vile child—"_

_"MOM SHUT UP!"_

_Mom starts. She looks like she's going to cry but I don't care. She can't talk about you like that. Absolutely fucking not. Let them think what they will about me but you're off limits._

_"Look Father, just look! Eddie's never behaved this way before that boy corrupted his brain."_

_"You don't even know him!"_

_The priest seems intrigued. He walks over, and reaches out to shake my hand. "And you must be Eddie." Fucking right asshole._

_"My name is Robert Gray, or Father Gray, to you. I'm happy to finally meet you in person."_

_I stare down at his outstretched palm and make no move to take it. When I look up, I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. "I wish I could say the same...but you know, lying is a sin and all."_

_Father Gray chuckles and mom just shakes her head, placing a hand to her forehead like she's stressed. Looks like I've disappointed her again._

_I make a show of looking around. "Where are all the other kids at?" I ask him, "I mean, this is a boys' camp, isn't it?"_

_"This one doesn't miss a thing, does he?" He says the words out loud to my mom, though he's still staring at me, "The sisters sometimes take the boys on day trips into town," he explains. "We like to o_ _ccasionally break free from traditional reform and give the boys some leisure time also."_

_I must not look convinced because Father Gray crosses his arms, and places a hand on his cheek amused, "Niebolt isn't a prison Eddie. It's a community. A home. We're all here to learn from each other. That doesn't mean you have to be miserable while doing so."_

_"I don't want to be here at all."_

_"In time, I'm hoping we change your mind about that. But I promise, this will be good for you, whether you believe so or not."_

_Who's this guy think he is? "Yeah, I doubt that."_

_He turns back to my mom and discusses some formalities, paper work and other stuff._

_I hang back and listen in. Apparently, I'm only_ _permitted two incoming phone calls a week, since limiting outside influences is the most effective way to completely immerse one's self in the program. Outgoing phone calls are strictly prohibited until the end of the six months. Great. Guess that means phone sex is out._

_The rules regarding visitation are even stricter. I'm allowed just one visitor twice a month._

_It's not much, but we can work with it. I know mom's not coming to visit me on those days anyway; she already hasn't stopped complaining about having to leave her recliner to bring me to today's admission meeting. Something tells me she isn't going to go the extra mile to drive down here twice a month and visit her disgraced son. This should make me sad, but I'm not at all—because I'll get to spend more time with you and the Losers. We'll figure out a decent schedule rotation—maybe I'll make a visitation wheel._

_There's only two weeks left in the month, which means I'll be able to see you soon. I'm almost grateful now for the six months we'll be away from her. Mom's not going to be able to control us here. We'll have an epic reunion every time you come visit._

_I'm talking full blown, star-crossed, cheesy shit._

_I'm in a daze, still thinking about us and how I'm going to jump your bones the next time I see you, when from the side of my eye I notice mom's pulling something out of her purse. It's a folded piece of paper. She's trying to be discreet about it, but the corner unfolds and I see exactly what she's handing off to Father Gray._

_My heart falls into my stomach. Not a paper. A photo. Our photo._

_"No!" I shout and I'm striding across the room, fast. I lunge for the photo but Father Gray is quick. He places his palm on my shoulder to stop me._

_I push against him but his grip is heavy and firm, keeping me in place. "That's mine." I say vehemently, "give it back." I try once more, and he_ _snags the photo away, harbouring it in the air, like I'm some kind of kitten to be toyed with. He_ _waggles a finger at me. "Ah, ah Eddie. It's for the best."_

_"How would you fucking know!"_

_He frowns, and opens the photo with one hand to view it._

_It's of us, on the Fourth of July last year. We just had a food fight, all us Losers, and this snapshot is of the messy aftermath. In it, we're in Bill's back yard and your arm is clumsily slung around my shoulders. You're laughing so hard and I still remember the feeling of your body quaking against mine. Ice cream is smushed into your hair and between your glasses. It drips down your neck and I'm right there, kissing it off…smirking against your skin, completely covered in egg salad._

_Mike took the photo with his Polaroid. It's my favourite photo I have of us. I had it hidden in a shoebox in my closet, which means mom went searching for something she could use against me. Well, she damn well found it because she_ _just passed you off, worthlessly, to Father Gray._

_He glances between the photo and my mom, "This is him, then?"_

_Mom's turns her nose up, like she's just smelt something rancid. She nods, "He's stubborn, you'll have a hard time keeping him away."_

_My ears are turning hot and a sick feeling lapses through my insides. This can't be happening right now._

_"There's no need to worry Miss Kaspbrak," Father Gray assures her, "This boy won't be permitted on the premises."_

_How could I be so stupid! I didn't see this coming...I thought...I thought she'd just forget about me here. But she went above and beyond to helicopter my life, even worse then before. She planned this shit out and now, they'll never let me see you!_

_Tears well in my eyes and leak down my cheeks. "He's just a friend, please!" My breathing hitches in quiet pules, "you don't have to keep him away."_

_They're staring at me, Father Gray with a vested interest and my mother with feigned remorse. Mom sighs, deep and long and walks over to hug me. Her sweatsuit smells like mothballs and that nasty lavender perfume she likes to wear. Her gaudy plastic earrings scratch against my cheek as she pulls me in. She squeezes me, but I keep my hands hanging idly at my side. I can't feel her embrace. I can't feel anything. I'm numb._

_"See what he does to you?" she whispers in my ear._

_She pulls back and I'm staring at her with wide, beseeching eyes._ _"Please," I say again, not even caring how desperate I sound. "Mom I don't want to stay here. I want to go home."_

 _"You_ _need to get better first," s_ _he pats my cheek, "So please stop being so dramatic Eddie bear. You'll be just fine." She steps back and beams with a proud smile, more about herself than about me. "Be a good boy." And she kisses my cheek one last time, leaving a fat red lipstick stain there._

_Father Gray walks her into the hall. I hear them exchanging final pleasantries and then she's leaves out the door. Gone._

_She left me. Holy fuck—she actually left me._

_There's a beat of silence. I'm still frozen in shock as Father Gray saunters back into the room. His hands are clasped casually behind his back as he meanders to the window. He moves the curtain aside and peers out. He watches mom get into her car and pull away. When she's halfway down the street he turns to face me._

_I'm still shaking. Unable to comprehend what's just happened._

_He comes to stand before me. I look up. He still has our photo in his hand, and he brings it up to his eyes to look over again._ _This time, he doesn't just glance at it, he examines long and hard._

_Father Gray smirks at what he sees and I hate the way he's staring at us like that. Like he knows us._

_His imperious gaze shifts to me. He looks me up and down, still smirking. I don't understand the way he's assessing me, but it has the wrong kind of feeling licking up my spine._

_He folds the photo twice and pockets it in his cassock._ _He steps closer—like right up in my space and I stiffen. He brings his hand up and places his palm on my cheek._

_What the fuck._

_"Don't cry sweet boy," he drags his thumb across my skin, wiping away my tears, "I'll make you forget all about him."_

_I swallow a sob because..._

_I can't forget you._

_I won't forget you._

_Richie I need you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for any support!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated, I live for feedback!


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